


#liabilities

by Snickfic



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Celebrations, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Pittsburgh Penguins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-10 01:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13493595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic/pseuds/Snickfic
Summary: Somehow Olli’s still upright, more or less.





	#liabilities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Highsmith (quimtessence)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/gifts).



Somehow Olli’s still upright, more or less. Maybe passing out earlier in full view of sun and twitter did him good. Brian’s all right without the nap, but that’s because he’s college-educated in how to hold his beer. Or not hold it, as the case may be—and where does Sid keep the bathrooms in this place, anyway?

Brian pisses out a bladderful of booze, mildly diluted, and goes to the kitchen for water. When he gets back to the living room, Olli’s listing into the sofa arm, beer loosely gripped and resting on his knee, apparently forgotten. Conor’s conked out at the other end, snoring. Brian inserts himself between Conor and Olli. “We did it,” he says, for something to say. The words come easily. He’s been saying them a lot, and heard others say them, in varying shades of disbelief. Brian’s on the far end, disbelief-wise. Last year he and the other D were already hashtag liabilities; this year they didn’t even have Tanger to keep them afloat.

Olli hasn’t replied, Brian notices finally. He’s frowning at his beer can, brow heavily furrowed that way Brian only sees when Olli’s drunk or _really_ fucking upset. 

Brian nudges the beer, and Olli shifts grips it tighter to keep it from falling. “What’s the big—?” Brian scowls theatrically.

“I wasn’t very good,” Olli says.

“What.”

“I haven’t been for a long time. Last year either. They want to trade me, you know.”

Brian sits abruptly upright. “Who? Who the fuck is going to trade you?”

“You know. People.” Olli waves the can in the air. There’s not much left in it, fortunately. Brian only gets a little damp.

“Are you talking about fans?” Brian asks. Olli shrugs. “Olli, come on, man. You know better.” Brian lifts the can out of Olli’s grip. Olli doesn’t even protest. “They gave you that big fat contract.”

“And I’m not worth it.”

“Yes, you are!” Brian says hotly. Olli blinks at him, confused. Brian’s a little confused also, but if he let that stop him he’d do literally nothing in his life except play hockey. “Okay, things haven’t been that great—”

“I kept blowing it. My coverage. Everything.”

“But you’ve been getting better. I saw it. The series against the Preds—you were hot, okay.” Olli _was_ hot. Is. After all the injuries, his hockey’s turning around—Brian’s not lying. He looks good out there on the ice, skating along the blue line on his edges, winding up for a shot. Pinching down low when he has the chance. Springing someone for a breakaway.

But Olli’s staring at Brian like he said something else, something—

Oh.

Well.

Olli’s eyes are a pale gray-blue, and they’re big and wide, even if they’re maybe not focusing a hundred percent just now. His hair looks good. A new haircut or something. Brian should tell him later, when he’s not about to kiss him. 

Olli grunts when Brian leans into him. He meets Brian head-on, no hesitation, and his mouth is wet with spit and yeasty from the beer. He’s warm against Brian’s mouth and his shoulder and his hand—a surprise, somehow, as though Brian thought he’d be as icy-cold as his eyes. “You’re hot,” Brian repeated, when he pulled away. Olli stared at him, just barely starting to smile. “Next year, man. You’ll be on fire. How old are you, again?”

“What?” Olli squints in drunk confusion. “Uh, twenty-two?”

“Twenty-two and you’ve won two Stanley Cups already. You don’t get to mope.”

Olli smiles again, showing off his teeth. Brian leans in for another kiss. Olli kisses back, enthusiastic and sloppy as hell. It’s a good minute or so in when Brian realizes, a kind of syrupy, disbelieving revelation, that he is way too drunk to get it up. 

Sid keeps his guest rooms ready. He’s an overprepared guy like that. A fucking adult, the way Brian’s pretty sure he will never be, even though Sid only has five years on him. “Come on,” he says, wobbling to his feet. “We’re going to bed.”

“We are?”

“Let these suckers sleep on the couch,” Brian says, tugging Olli up. They have to lean into each other, kinda. Brian hopes there’s an empty guest room on this floor. “We’re taking a bed. And tomorrow we’re going to fuck.”

“We are?” Olli repeated, foggy but hopeful.

“We so are.”

They pause in the kitchen on the way, because if Brian gets to fuck Olli—which he totally wanted to do before, he just figured he’d get shot the hell down, and he didn’t want to rock the good thing, lose the boat, etc—then he’s not puking his way through a hangover first if he can possibly help it. At Sid’s fridge, in his chrome kitchen lit only by the light over the stove, Brian raises his water glass. “To us,” he says.

Olli clinks his glass against Brian’s. “To us.”

**Author's Note:**

> * After the 2017 Stanley Cup Parade, Olli [passed out on his balcony](http://puckducky.tumblr.com/post/161846593549).  
> * Title courtesy of Kris Letang, [professional pillar of salt](http://horseshitfuckingcall.tumblr.com/post/145938659515/pittsburgh-penguins-20152016-goaltenders-and)


End file.
